


Presagio

by PengyChan



Series: Heaven and Earth [2]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Backstory, Foreshadowing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: The line between life and death is thin - so thin, in fact, that by coming too close one can almost catch a glimpse.[“Héctor? I dreamed that I was dead.”]





	Presagio

“Héctor! Where are you? Héctor!” 

 Ricardo Rivera paused in the middle of the empty town square, drenched to the bone, staring helplessly around him. Rain was coming down in buckets, making it hard for him to see further than a few feet ahead; the first real taste of the rainy season, and it was already one of the worst downpours he had ever seen. Soon enough, the parched earth would be unable to absorb any more water; it would turn the usually small stream by the town into a raging river, flood the fields and some houses, likely kill some cattle. It could get very dangerous real fast.

And his son was nowhere to be seen. The entire town looked empty, everyone else probably off somewhere dry, and Ricardo hoped with all his might that his boy was among them - but even so, worry gnawed at him. He should have been home by then - why wasn’t he?

“Mijo! Where are you?”

The pouring rain was all that he could hear for a few moments, then there was a voice… but it was not Héctor’s, and it was not responding to his call. It looked like his son was not, after all, the only one missing.

“Ernesto! You come here right now, boy! You’re in trouble enough as it is, you hear! Come out, or God help you and me! Your mother won’t recognize you when I’m done!”

Ricardo turned to see a man limping through the square, soaking wet and cursing up a storm, and for a moment his first instinct was of leaving before being spotted. That was most people’s first reaction upon meeting him: Estéban de la Cruz was not, by any means, a pleasant man. He’d always had a dreadful temper, which the accident in the zinc mine - the one that had left him with a lame leg, forcing him to make a living by building fireworks with the zinc he used to mine - had only made worse. Yes, under normal circumstances, Ricardo would have avoided him.

But these were no normal circumstances. His son was missing, and so was the Ernesto de la Cruz; it was easy enough to guess that, wherever they were, they likely were together. “Estéban!”

Hearing his name caused the man to turn. He had to wipe the rain off his eyes to recognize Ricardo, and when he did, he scowled. “Is my son at your place? Of course he is, he won’t stop wasting his time with your brat! You tell him to come home right--”

“He’s not. Héctor is not home, either,” Ricardo cut him off. “I’d actually be hoping he’d be at your home…”

“Pah! Your brat knows better than coming over to bother us,” Estéban snapped, and turned back to the empty square. “ERNESTO! YOU COME OUT RIGHT NOW, OR ELSE!”

No answer save from the roaring rain and thunder in the distance. With a snort, Estéban turned to glare at Ricardo. Anger was etched on his features, but there was more than that, something Ricardo could of course recognize. Beneath the fury, there was a scared father. “This has got to be your kid’s faut. You better hope I don’t find them first, because once I’m done teaching Ernesto a lesson--”

That was enough to make the sense of kinship fade, and Ricardo scowled. “You will not raise a hand on my boy.”

“Oh? And who’s to stop me? You?” Estèban snorted. He was taller and broader than Ricardo had ever been, but he didn’t allow that to intimidate him.

“Don’t be unreasonable,” he said instead, trying to defuse the situation. “Both of our sons are missing. We’re both worried. Let’s focus on finding them. As you said, they’re probably toge--”

“Ricardo! Estéban! What are you doing out there? I swear it’s like God is trying to drown the world all over again!”

The shout caused both men to turn to the left, where someone familiar was looking at them through a window, his face hardly visible through the sheets of rain. Still, his voice was unmistakable.

“Álvaro! Have you seen Héctor and Ernesto anywhere? They didn’t return home!”

“Ay, they didn’t? I saw them earlier today! They were heading down that way - I think they were talking about the old mine shaft? Something about acoustics? I don’t understand half of what those two boys keep babbling abou--”

“The old mine?” Estéban blurted out, stunned and, if the tone of his voice was anything to go by, somewhat frightened. The reason why was obvious: the old mine shaft was very close to the river, which was due to break its banks soon if the rain downpour didn’t ease. As things were, both the river and the mine shaft could quickly turn into deadly traps - and if the boys were still there, they would be caught in the middle.

Despite all of the rain falling around him, Ricardo’s mouth suddenly felt dry as desert. “We must find them,” he heard himself saying, but no one heard him but the rain: Estéban de la Cruz was already limping through the square as fast as his lame leg would allow him, heading towards the river and cussing up a storm. Ricardo was quick to follow, heart beating somewhere in his throat.

“Maybe we should split,” he called out. “I can go, and if you go back to get help-”

“Do you think I’m too crippled to be of use?”

“Wha-- no! I just--” Ricardo tried, but he was cut off when Estéban turned to glare at him, not breaking his stride.

“You waste your time trying to get _help_ if you want,” he spat. “I am going. That goddamned mine ruined my leg. It won’t take my son.”

He was off again without another word, moving faster than Ricardo had ever thought possible for anybody to do while dragging a lame leg. After a moment’s hesitation, Ricardo turned back to Álvaro’s window. “Álvaro! We’re going--”

“Say no more!” he yelled back, cutting him off. “I’ll call up a few people and be right after you! We’ll find them, don’t worry!”

As he hurried after Estéban, Ricardo fervently wished he could be as confident.

* * *

_“Otro día por la mañana/Cuando la gente llegó/Unos a los otros dicen/No saben quien lo mató...”_

To tell the whole truth, practicing in the old mine shaft had been Ernesto’s idea. And, until the moment he realized it quite literally got them into troubled waters, Héctor had thought it had been a very good one.

They usually practiced at Héctor’s home, but that day his mother had been complaining about a terrible headache, so that was out of question. Practicing at Ernesto’s place was _always_ out of question, as his father hated the noise and Héctor would rather not be within a mile radius from him anyway. Sometimes they played somewhere in the open, but that day the sky was full of heavy clouds, ready to rain the heavens down on them, and they didn’t much like the idea of getting soaked to the bone.

“How about the old mine shaft?” Ernesto had finally suggested, brightening up. “We can keep dry in here, and I bet the music is going to sound even better down there!”

So they had headed to the unused mine shaft with Ernesto’s guitar, because Héctor’s needed to be tuned again and he hadn’t had the time to, and to be fair it had been a lot of fun. The sounds bounced across the old walls, coming back to their ears amplified, and there was a faint echo that could almost be mistaken for a distant public singing along with them. Ernesto liked that a lot, and in the end they had stayed there a lot longer than they had planned - so long that Héctor grew tired of singing, and settled to try writing up a new song instead while Ernesto kept at it.

Easier said than done, though - he couldn’t think of anything. Perched on a boulder, next to the candle they had brought with them, Héctor frowned down at the blank page and finally let his gaze wander to the darkness ahead of them. He knew the shaft kept going quite far underground, but that particular one had been closed when Héctor was just a baby, after an accident had caused it to collapse on itself further ahead.

All the miners who had been caught in it had died except for Estéban de la Cruz, but he hadn’t really made it out unschathed: the rocks had crushed his right leg nearly to dust, it was said, and it had never healed right.

“Ernesto?”

“ _Decía Gregorio Cortez Con su pistola en la mano/No siento haberlo matad-_ huh? What is it?”

“This is the shaft where the accident happened, right? The one your father was in?”

The question caught Ernesto by surprise, and he frowned down at him. He sat down on the rock as well, placing down his guitar. “I think so. Why do you ask?”

“Do you remember what your dad was like before that happened?”

“I think I was, what, four? I don’t remember, amigo. But I bet he was just as he is now - an unspeakable pain in the rear,” he added, causing Héctor to laugh a bit before he looked down at the darkness ahead of them, biting his lower lip.

“I was thinking I could write a song about the mine accident,” he said, and Ernesto made a face.

“Why would you do that?”

“So many people died. What’s better than a song to remember them?”

“Pfft, how about no? They’ve already got Dia de los Muertos for this whole remembrance thing. They don’t need a song. Music is so much better when it’s about happy stuff, mi hermanito,” he added with a grin, and ruffled his hair. “Who listens to music to get depressed? It should be about _life,_ not about dead guys and a crippled cabrón.”

“You were _literally_ just singing a song about a guy who kills another guy.”

“That’s drama! Action! Who doesn’t like that?” he pointed out, and he seemed about to add something else, but a sudden rumbling noise caused them both to freeze, and look at the darkness ahead of them in sudden silence.

“W-what was that?” Ernesto asked, his voice suddenly smaller, immediately glancing up at the walls and ceiling, as though suddenly aware of the fact they were in a very enclosed space - a mine shaft that had collapsed before.

I don’t know, Héctor almost said, but then the sound came again, louder than before, and realization hit him. “Oh! That was a thunder! It must be raining,” he exclaimed, and he laughed in sheer relief. After a moment Ernesto joined in, and it made him feel even better, if a little embarrassed for getting scared like that.

It was all right. It was only thunder and for a moment it had scared them, but that was it. The mine shaft definitely wasn’t going to collapse on them… but even so, maybe it would be prudent to leave now, wouldn’t it? Not that he was scared. It was just that… well…

“Heh. We… we should go before we’re late for dinner, right?”

“Huh? Oh, sì. Totally. We really have to get going,” Ernesto agreed, and jumped off the rock they were perched on, landing on the ground with a splash.

… Wait. Why a splash?

“What the-- hey, there is water here! Give me the candle!”

It was true, Héctor realized: water was running down from the entrance above is a steady stream, which they hadn’t noticed while perched on the boulder; it was up to Ernesto’s ankles, and more kept coming in.Héctor glanced back at Ernesto, eyes wide, and his friend frowned, reaching to grab his guitar and throw it over his back.

“We’ve got to get out of here. Let’s go,” he added, and began walking. Héctor followed, wincing when his own feet got underwater. It felt really, really cold, but the chill that ran up his spine had little to do with temperature.

_The river. Oh God, the river, that has to be it, it broke its banks and we’re all the way down here!_

“Neto…” he called out, hating it how much his voice sounded like mewling, but he was only eight, scared out of his mind, and he couldn’t help it. He reached for his friend, and Ernesto’s free hand grasped his own a moment later. “I want to go home,” he choked out.

“We are. We’re going home. Just follow me,” Ernesto said, and he sounded so sure confident that Héctor could almost believe they were in no trouble at all.

Almost.

* * *

“Héctor! Mijo! Can you hear me?”

“Ernesto! I swear to god I am going to _kill you_ if you dare die on me!”

“Has it occurred to you that your son would be more likely to show up if you stopped threatening him?”

“Mind your own goddamn business!”

“I am just saying that if you calm down--”

“Look at that river, you idiot, and tell me again to calm down!”

Ricardo turned to the river, and for a moment his breath caught in his throat. It was bad, real bad: the water was already starting to overflow the banks, and surely some had already reached the old mine shaft. The thought was chilling, but Ricardo did his best to keep calm. It was bad, but not the worst he had ever seen.

“Listen, it hasn’t flooded everything yet,” he said. “If the dam upstream holds up for a while longer, there will be enough time for us to found the chicos and--”

The roar of water covered his words, and suddenly the river swelled, a wave coming to crash down on before them, dragging loads of debris with it - including a load of trunks and boulders, the remains of the dam upstream. As the water rose quickly almost to his ankles, Ricardo found himself unable to speak for a couple of instants. Estéban found his voice first.

“Jesus Christ, you are rotten luck.”

“... Sorry,” he mumbled, but once again Estéban had not stayed to listen to it: he was already moving through the water, which was quickly rising up to his shins, heading towards the old mine shaft and calling for his son at the top of his lungs. Ricardo followed him immediately, desperately trying not to think that it may be too late - that his only boy may be already be drowning like a rat, his body forever lost deep underground.

* * *

The wave came just when they could finally see the exit right ahead, only a few steps away from safety. It came down the mine shaft roaring and splashing, and it gave Ernesto no time to cry out, no time to shout a warning or brace himself. It hit him like a wall of bricks and the next moment he was tumbling back down the shaft, unable to even tell up from down, Héctor’s hand snatched from his grasp, the candle lost.

The old frayed strap that secured the guitar to his back snapped, and his back was unprotected when he hit it against something - one of the boulders on the ground. The impact was violent enough to knock all the air out of his lungs but he instinctively clung to the boulder and was able to pull himself up above the stream, coughing and sputtering, as that first wave of water passed over him.

The current kept him pressed against the side of the rock, and he blinked several times, trying to get water out of his eyes and look around. Where was his guitar? Where was--

“ERNESTO!”

In the light coming from the entrance - they hadn’t been dragged too far back, he realized, and that was good - he could see Héctor only a few feet from him, holding onto another rock that was too large for the flow of water to move. He was terrified, eyes wide as saucers, but it wasn’t him Ernesto focused on.

“My guitar!”

It was caught between a wall and the rock Héctor was clinging to, but it was a precarious position at best; the water could sweep it away any moment, down in the dark to never be retrieved. With a grimace, Ernesto stretched his arm as far as he could. His fingers almost touched the broken strap.

“Neto! I’m slipping!”

Héctor’s voice was very close by, thin and frightened, but at the same time it sounded so far away. All that Ernesto could see was his guitar, an old battered thing but also the only one he’d ever had. He would get it back, and then grab Héctor too, and they would get out of there. If only he could stretch another inch… only another inch...

Then Héctor’s grip on the rock slipped and he was thrown back with a cry, and Ernesto had no time to think: he just swung his outstretched arm towards him, and he was able to grab his wrist one moment before he was swept away. The sudden pull hurt his shoulder enough to make it wonder if it had been pulled out of its socket, but he managed to hold on. If Héctor hadn’t been such a lightweight, he probably would have lost his grip.

“I’ve got you,” Ernesto gasped. On his left, his guitar became dislodged and was dragged away; Héctor tried to grab it with his free arm, but missed, and let out a cry of dismay.

“Your guitar!”

Ernesto grimaced. “Forget it. We need to get out of here,” he said, and pulled Héctor towards him, making an effort to grin. Now that the first wave had passed, the current wasn’t too strong; if they kept close to the wall, they should be able to walk to the exit without being swept away again. “And once we do, I’ll be taking your guitar. Fair’s fair,” he added, causing Héctor to give a shaky laugh. He managed to take a few steps upstream holding on Ernesto’s arm.

“If we get out alive, I’m going to serenade you before I give you the guitar.”

“I’ll pass on the serenade, mi hermanito,” Ernesto laughed. “Let’s get going. My father’s gonna kill me if I die. Actually he’ll probably try to kill me either way, but I can outrun that lame duck,” he added, causing Héctor to laugh again before they got going.

The current was still strong enough to make it hard to walk upstream, but it was nowhere as bad as the first wave had been, and some tumbling aside they were able to make it to the exit - to find himself facing the worst downpour they’d ever seen, and a normally small stream that had turned into something akin to a lake.

“We’re out!”

“And soaking wet. Let’s get away from the water, it just keeps rising!”

Getting up the bank and away from the river was almost as hard as the climb had been: the usually dry earth had turned into deep mud, and by the time they made it above the water level they were trembling with effort, caked in mud, and chilled to the bone. Ernesto didn’t sit down as much as he collapsed on the ground, and Héctor dropped down the same way next to him. They stayed still a couple of minutes, breathing hard, letting the pouring rain wash away some of the mud before they finally pulled themselves up and looked at each other.

Héctor was the first one to laugh. “You look terrible.”

“Says the drowned rat,” Ernesto half-snorted, half-snickered. “Come on, let’s get going. If we’re lucky--”

“HÉCTOR! WHERE ARE YOU?”

“ERNESTO! ANSWER ME!”

“Aaand no. No such luck,” Ernesto groaned. Héctor, on the other hand, jumped on his feet.

“Papá! We’re here!” he called out, taking a few step towards the voices in the pouring rain. With a sigh, Ernesto took a step to follow him and that was it - the only step he would take.

_CRACK._

He heard the crack of thunder, and the groan of breaking wood. He heard Héctor’s scream, saw his horrified expression, saw him stretching out a hand towards him in warning. He looked up, and he saw the tree - a tree that had stood tall and proud until now, now that the raging river had bared its roots - rushing towards him, branches whistling in through the air.

He had no time to scream. He had not time to shield himself. He had no time to think.

The tree fell and so did darkness.

* * *

The minutes that followed would forever stay murky in Héctor’s mind, but there were things he would remember all too well. He’d remember screaming so much that his throat hurt for days afterwards - for Ernesto to wake up, for his father to come quickly, for _someone_ to help. He’d remember trying, unsuccessfully, to pull Ernesto’s unconscious body from under the branches that kept him pinned on the ground.

“No! Wake up! You can have my guitar! I’ll get you a new one! I’ll do anything! Just please don’t be dead! PLEASE!”

He’d remember the blood on Ernesto’s head being washed away by rain and, most of all, he’d remember the water rising even more around them.

_He’s going to drown,_ he’d remember thinking, grabbing Ernesto’s head and trying to keep his face above the water. _It will keep rising and he will drown here and there is nothing I can do._

“Papá! Help! Somebody! ANYBODY! PLEASE! HELP!”

Then his father was there, and that was when his memories became confused. He was telling him something, _asking_ him something, but Héctor could only scream and cry. Estéban de la Cruz was there, too, kneeling next to the tree, trying to get the branches off his son.

“Ernesto! Ernestito!”

_Don’t call him that, he hates it,_ Héctor wanted to say, but his voice failed him, and suddenly everything sounded so far away. More people came, there were voices, someone put a blanket around him and brought him further away, but he didn’t stop watching.

He watched when a dozen or so people began working to free Ernesto from beneath the fallen tree, shouting and pulling and shoving. He watched when Estéban was finally able to pull him free, pale and still and limp, and cradled him in his arms. He watched as the man pressed an ear against his son’s chest and then screamed, his voice holding more anguish than Héctor had thought could exist in the world.

“He’s not breathing! Madre de Dios, he’s not _breathing_ \--!”

Everything began to fade before Héctor’s eyes, and he staggered backwards, unable to breathe himself. Someone caught him - his father? - and maybe spoke to him, but he didn’t hear a word. He could hear nothing but what Estéban had screamed.

_He’s not breathing._

_I tried. I tried._

“Héctor…!”

The world swayed and darkened, and Héctor found that it was a relief. A chasm opened, and he let himself fall.

* * *

He tried to get up but he couldn’t.

Something kept giving in beneath his feet. Mud, he thought, he was still trying to walk through the mud, but what wasn’t right. It didn’t feel like mud, it was something dry that soft but oh, it was so hard to walk through! He could see nothing and he was sinking in it and the more he walked, the more difficult it was. It was pushing back against him like the water had, during the climb up the mine shaft.

But, like in the mine, he needed to keep going. He needed to get to… to… he didn’t know. To whatever was on the other side. He needed to go home.

_Neto, I want to go home._

_We are. We’re going home. Just follow me._

But Ernesto was not--  
_breathing_  
\--there. No one was there.

_Is someone there? Please! I am here! Don’t forget me!_

Panic began to rear its head. He had no one to follow and he didn’t have the strength to keep going through… what was it he was waddling into? Was it petals? It smelled like marigold, the way his home always did on Dia de los Muertos.

_Home. I have to go home. I just want to go home._

He took another step, but he sank further down and then, once again, he was falling. It was still dark and the petals were gone, and there was nothing but the fall. Héctor screamed, unable to hear his own voice, and tried to reach up - only for somebody to seize his hand.

“Héctor!” a voice, one he knew, called out. Héctor’s eyes snapped open to see there was a face above him, and he knew that well, too.

“... Mamá?”

Leaning over Héctor’s bed, his hand in hers, Emilia Rivera smiled through tears. “Hello, mijo,” she said, her voice barely breaking up. “You are grounded for life.”

* * *

Knocking at the door of Estéban de la Cruz took every ounce of courage Héctor possessed, but he did it anyway, because Ernesto was in there and he had to give him his guitar, he had promised he would. And plus, he had to see him. So he knocked and, when that got him no response, he reached up to knock again.

“Have you come to finish the job?”

The voice - harsh and somewhat slurred, that of a man who’d been drinking - reached him before he could even touch the door, and he turned so quickly he almost stumbled on his own feet, heart beating somewhere in his throat. Èsteban de la Cruz was standing just a few feet from him, a bottle in his hand, reddened eyes narrowed and fixed on him. Only three days ago, he would have scared Héctor half to death; now he found he mostly felt bad. It’s hard to be afraid of someone you’ve seen so terrified.

_Madre de Dios, he’s not breathing!_

“I… I just… came here to see Ernesto,” Héctor finally managed. His voice still sounded huskier than it should; he had really hurt his throat screaming on the day of the flood.

Estéban snorted, his eyes shifting to the guitar under his arm. “Music. You and your music,” the man spat. “It almost got him killed.”

“No, I… I-it wasn’t music, that was the flood! We were done playing, we were just trying to--”

“It will be your ruin,” the man cut him off, and took another swig from the bottle before wiping his mouth dry with a sleeve. He didn’t even sound angry, now; it was like he was stating that the sky was blue. “It is an obsession and I know how _those_ work. It sucks the life out of you. Mark my words, it will bring you both to an early grav--”

“Estéban. Enough.”

Héctor hadn’t heard the door behind him opening, but he heard Adela de la Cruz speaking out, and so did her husband. He looked up at her with an oddly surprised expression, like he had no idea how she’d come to be there, and scowled. For a few moments they only stared at each other in tense silence, but Héctor got the feeling that there was an argument going on all the same, just with wills instead of words. In the end, it was Estéban to turn away.

“Have it your way,” he snapped, and turned away, dragging his lame leg. Héctor felt a touch on his shoulder, and looked up to see Adela smiling a bit tiredly down at him.

“Don’t mind him, niño. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Héctor swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset him, I… I came to see Ernesto. May I…?”

“Yes, dear. You can come in. He’s… he’s resting,” she said, and something heavy settled on Héctor’s stomach. He knew that he wasn’t just resting; their rescuers had managed to get him breathing again, and a doctor had patched up his head the best he could, but he had stayed unconscious. Now, three days on, he still wouldn’t wake up.

“I… I have brought him my guitar,” Héctor mumbled, looking down as he followed her inside the house. “Because he lost his, and… so that he can practice. When he wakes up.”

“Of course, dear. That’s very kind of you. Ernestito is lucky to be your friend,” she added, and something about those words made Héctor want to cry.

_Have you come to finish the job?_

_Music. You and your music. It almost got him killed._

The words echoing in his head made it even harder for Héctor to stomach the sigh when he was let inside Ernesto’s room. He was tucked into his bed, eyes closed and skin an ashen gray, head covered by white bandages. He hardly looked like himself. Despite the steady rise and fall of his chest, he hardly looked alive.

_Mark my words, it will bring you both to an early grave._

There was a gentle touch on Héctor’s head. “I’ll leave you alone, chico. Perhaps you would like to play for him? I’m sure my Tito would love that. I talk to him, but I don’t know if he can hear me,” she added, and for a moment her voice broke. She had turned and left the room quickly, a hand on her mouth, closing the door behind herself.

There was a chair beside the bed, and Héctor went to sit on it, putting the guitar down on his knees. In the shadows cast by the oil lamp, the dark shadows under Ernesto’s closed eyes looked even darker; for a moment, it was like looking at empty sockets of a skull.

_Perhaps you would like to play for him._

_You and your music. It almost got him killed._

But it wasn’t true. The flood had almost killed them, the tree had almost killed them, but not music. They could have been there to do anything other than playing the guitar and singing - they could have been exploring - and that would have put them in danger all the same. Music was not to blame, _he_ was not to blame, and Héctor was sure Ernesto knew that.

Maybe, once he woke up and all was right again, they could write a song about that adventure, about how they had escaped from a watery grave. Why not? Action, drama - there were all the things Ernesto liked. They would take their fear and exorcise it with music; he would write a song for Ernesto to sing and all would be well again. But for now, he would stick to a song they both knew.

_“¡Ay de mí!, Llorona, Llorona,_  
_Llorona llévame al río,_  
_Tápame con tu rebozo, Llorona,_ _  
_ _Porque me muero de frío…”_

The words came easily, and so did the music. Héctor closed his eyes, and kept going - and thus he missed the moment Ernesto’s eyelids twitched, the slightest shifting of his head on the pillow.

_“Dicen que no tengo duelo, Llorona,_  
_Porque no me ven llorar_  
_Hay muertos que no hacen ruido, Llorona,  
_ _¡Y es más grande su penar…”_

For a few moments Héctor kept playing, letting the music flow, readying himself for the next part - but he never did, because someone else beat him to it, in a voice that was weak and distant and yet so very familiar.

_“¡Ay de mí!, Llorona, Llorona,_  
_Llorona de ayer y hoy_  
_Ayer maravilla fui, Llorona,_ _  
_ _Y ahora ni sombra soy…”_

Startled, Héctor very nearly dropped the guitar. His eyes snapped open and he found himself staring right into Ernesto’s eyes, because they were open, oh yes, he had opened his eyes and he was awake and everything was going to be fine, he knew it, everything would be all right now.

“Ernesto! You’re awake! You heard me! You… you… is something wrong?” he asked, suddenly realizing that yes, his eyes were open and yes, he did sing, but something still felt wrong. The way he looked at him was odd, as though he could barely recognize him.

“Héctor?” Ernesto’s voice sounded distant now, his gaze dazed. “I dreamed that I was dead.”

_Madre de Dios, he’s not breathing!_

Héctor refused to think back of that scream, of that moment. “It was just a dream,” he found himself saying. “We’re all right. That was three days ago.”

“Three days?”

“Yes. You were knocked out - do you remember that?”

Slowly, Ernesto nodded and reached up for his head. His fingers brushed against the bandages. “Right,” he mumbled. “It fell on me, didn’t it? I was trapped under the bell.”

“Yes, it just fell down and-- wait, what?” Héctor asked, blinking in confusion. Maybe there had been consequences to the blow, after all. “No, it wasn’t a bell. It was a tree, remember? The river bank gave way, there was lighting, and--”

“It was dark in there. I couldn’t move it and I couldn’t leave, and… and you wouldn't come help me because… because…”

“I… no! I was there! You were unconscious, you can’t remember, but I stayed--”

“No one would come.”

“That’s not true!” Héctor protested, and something else began to rear up its ahead amidst the confusion - something that wasn’t too far away from fright. There was something terrifying in what Ernesto was saying, in the distant cast in his eyes as he looked at him. There was no expression at all on his face, no emotion in his voice, and it made him want to turn away and run. “A lot of people came to help! You just don’t remember, and… and… Please, snap out of it,” he pleaded, and grabbed Ernesto’s shoulder, causing him to recoil with a sharp intake of breath.

Héctor didn’t care if he’d startled him; he wished more than anything to see that emptiness break into one of his wide grins, to hear him calling him _hermanito_ again, ruffling his hair as he always did when he wanted to annoy him. He would be happy if he did now, he really would. And, after blinking at him a couple of times, he _did_ grin: it was a weak one, sure, but a grin nonetheless, as though he’d only just awakened for real. Whatever it was that had clouded his eyes it was gone, and his gaze fell on the guitar and then turned back to him.

“... Heh. Didn’t I tell you I’d pass on the serenade?” he said, and he sounded so much more like himself that Héctor could have burst crying. He burst out laughing instead, and it was almost the same thing.

“It’s not a serenade if we’re both singing,” he replied, and held up the guitar. “What do you say, Ernestito?”

“That if you call me that again, you’re the dead one.”

“Haha! As you wish, Tito.”

“Keep that up and I’ll break the guitar on your head to see it it’s as hard as mine.”

“It’s the only guitar we’ve got between the two of us,” Héctor reminded him with a laugh. He began playing and everything was right in the world again, with a guitar in his hands and a friend to sing with him. He became lost in music - forgetful of Ernesto’s odd words and his own ominous dream, oblivious of the woman listening from the other side of the door while weeping in silence and of the broken man muttering dark omens on the patio outside.

They were alive and there was music, and everything was just as it should be.

_“Si porque te quiero, quieres, Llorona,_  
_que yo la muerte reciba,_  
_Que se haga tu voluntad, Llorona,  
_ _que muera por que otro viva…”_

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note on the songs!  
> The one Ernesto is singing near the beginning is El Corrido de Gregorio Cortez. The lines he sings translate roughly to “The following morning/When people arrived/Some said to others/They don’t know who killed him” and “Gregorio Cortez said, with his pistol in his hand/I’m not sorry for killing him/[ my concern is for my brother]”.
> 
> The second is, obviously, one of the various versions of La Llorona I have seen around. Here’s a translation of the bits in the story: 
> 
> Alas!, Llorona, Llorona,  
> Llorona take me to the river,  
> Cover me with your shawl, Llorona  
> Because I am dying of cold.
> 
> They say that I don’t mourn, Llorona  
> Because they don’t see me cry.  
> There are dead that do not make noise, Llorona,  
> And is their pain is much greater!
> 
> Alas!, Llorona, Llorona,  
> Llorona of yesterday and today.  
> Yesterday I was a wonder, Llorona  
> And now even not a shadow I am.
> 
> If because I love you, you want, Llorona,  
> That you want me to die.  
> Let that your will be, Llorona,  
> let me die so someone else lives.


End file.
